


100 Years to say “I’m sorry” for what happened to you

by Anonymous



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: It's cathartic self projection please head the warnings in notes, Other, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, and a nsfw scene before trauma comes up, some wolexarch at end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26360545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: At no point in his relief does he think what happened to him has affected him. He's fine, he tells himself, all his pains springing from the mystery of his red eye. As fate sets him on paths of duty, he buries it deeper, certain it won't affect his any action.But is he really fine?Fortunately, he'll realize he isn't before he's told he's not.(This is cathartic self projection as I still struggle to open up about my own experiences. Please ignore this if you'll find it upsetting.)
Kudos: 4
Collections: Anonymous





	100 Years to say “I’m sorry” for what happened to you

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone  
> Maybe it would be better if no one read this  
> I just got inspired by Shamus Kelley’s article coming out about being a child sexual abuse survivor and the mentality under which he kept it secret, which really hit home. Unlike him, however, many circumstances would make telling family or friends about mine a mess, so I’m trying to give my inner child some peace by opening about it indirectly: some online place where it can be seen but also unseen, kinda like a schrodinger's cat. I picked G’raha as a vessel because he’s one of few adults I relate to, and reflects me in many ways and where I want to get to in life, and I understand very well why he hesitates to express his own wishes to uphold his duty. 
> 
> To make this more readable, I’ll enclose the actual details of assault in [ ] brackets. It won’t be graphic in wording because I don’t want to trigger myself either, but, I understand insinuations are upsetting to read. Everything else will be before and the after of how this pain is processed. I gotta warn he’ll be dismissive of his situation (it wasn’t that bad kind of mentality) and self deprecating. Please don’t read if that will upset you. At the end there’ll also be a loving nsfw scene that will be interrupted by G’raha’s trauma so, warnings for that as well.
> 
> If you do read this, well, I can only say that I hope for your understanding, even though I don’t feel the ending for me personally. It’s more for G’raha if this were his story. Thank God it’s not. Have some nice music https://youtu.be/2khYTSceCqg https://youtu.be/0KSAEq1LiXQ 
> 
> Oh and also, written all the way to 5.3 so, spoilers.

Since he was a child, G’raha Tia prefered to just endure things.

He was enough of a burdeen with his odd eye, kids pulling at his tail to pull at his tail and reflect adult whispers of his “cursed” legacy. For much as he was their toy of fun, they wouldn’t let him in. Sometimes he wouldn’t understand, odd as his brain is (he'd come to know later the root of his social disgrace), and he would end up with bruises or emotional wounds his father would rescue from everytime.

He wasn’t any child. He heard the sighs and picked the many hairs his father shredded from stress. Being the one in the G tribe with the red eye hereditary line meant working harder to keep a seat of respect in the council. And on top of that, he had to lick his litter’s bruises and be on the lookout for when he’d get himself hurt next. The poor man never had a moment to rest.

Which is why next time he was trapped, he didn’t cry for help.

He can’t recall how young he was exactly. Five? Seven? All he knew for sure was that his father and him were visiting a friend in another city. It had not been the first time G’raha visited that beautiful house, waddling through the garden and shelves upstairs with glee. The oldest son was kind, and even showed him intriguing illustrated books every once in a while. The younger daughter showed him replicas of historical artifacts. G’raha’s eyes shone like diamonds every time he visited, and much like other times, he waddled to another room next to the main room. His father and his friend were toasting with other friends, having fun but talking nothing of interest. In this room he saw the daughter move parts of connected circles with colors and symbols. Ears perked up, he walked to see what she was doing. [[[[[[[ She didn’t look at him when she put him in his lap, continuing her task as he watched with curiosity. Just as he was gonna ask what it was, he suddenly felt his trousers invaded. He kept watching the artifact be spun and altered, confused on what this feeling nor what she was doing. He only knew he hated it.

“This is annoying, stop it!”

But still she continued, like it was a task as automatic as the artifact she was rotating and deciphering. ]]]]]]] G’raha huffed in annoyance, when he heard his father call out for him in the main room. He sat up and moved away and she just, let him go, still twisting and adjusting the artifact. He tidied his clothes and went back to his father and beamed as he picked him up in his arms, smiling like nothing happened.

He didn’t realize things were wrong. In fact, he thought it was all very weird. It must have been as weird as his behavior after, since his father told him to stop his “curiosities” for the sake of hygiene. He felt it was easy to brush off and go back to his studies, giving no word to his classmates during break and removing himself to the bench closest to the forest. In time, he started to have a book always under his arm, starting with his tribes’ history to the geographical data of the region. When he could find no other, he asked the local librarian for chores and tasks in exchange for book requests from larger cities. Tome after another, his literary skills grew to the point he learned other languages to be able to absorb more history. He would eventually ask to assist in the library and organize archives, sometimes discovering connections between his tribe’s history and others no one had ever seen. By the age of 16th, other tias glared at his back as he received a necklace in recognition of his scholar prowess, but applauded with respectable silence. 

For G’raha, it was enough that they were finally off his back. The heroes of history he loved would have raised their fists or cheered in victory. Instead, G’raha nodded politely and went back to his seat, putting the necklace under his shirt and out of sight the rest of the day. He never celebrated his achievements. Heck, he asked his dad long ago to not make him birthday parties and just bring him cake. His father’s kindness and other major’s recognitions, he was grateful for them.

Moreover, he felt he didn’t deserve it.

Sometimes he would get snappy when doing a task with someone, or asked in class about something he disagreed with. His cheeks would heat up and he would apologize immediately. He couldn’t understand why he acted like this. Was it the bullying he never got to fight back with fists or words? Did the red eye come with a tendency to randomly be “too honest” on the fault of an ally that has been nothing but nice to him? All because he got frustrated for a second? The only way G’raha knew to cope with this was to keep throwing himself into his work, until one day he looked at his red eye in the mirror and wished to reach and twist that face unrecognizable. His jaw dropped and he covered his mouth, choking a sob, asking Azeyma for forgiveness for even conceiving such thoughts. He wiped his tears and squared his shoulders, asking for tasks to prepare a bag of tea and a box of blueberry cookies for his father, who accepted them with gratitude. With this, he set a comfortable mood to express concern over his eye, citing his past mistreatments instead of directly linking his random behaviors. His father let out a sigh, saying he and his ancestors didn’t know more aside from one whisper passed from father to son, any rest forgotten:

“The truth lies with Allag.”

Allag.

He had seen the empire mentioned in many texts, but he had not reached enough history scope to reach the empires of old yet. He hadn’t even reached available info about the present Garlemarld, but this info was most urgent to find. When his library could find no central book, he grew frustrated, but managed to control himself. With enough inquiries he figured he’d have to leave his tribe if he wanted to specialize in the subject he wanted now. His father welcomed his commitment, giving him a big hug before making inquiries to friends who may facilitate his journey.

His last days in the tribe wouldn’t be fully pleasant, though: as he folded selected clothes, his father chuckled that the eldest son of a certain friend had sent news to his village, now a revered culinarian at Limsa Lominsa. G’raha’s felt a chill up his spine that paralyzed his ears before he could pin them down, nodding courtly before turning away and swallowing. He dared not ask about the girl who, abused him? It was so fast and he thought so little of it he was not sure if he was really traumatized by it. He had become aware rape was a thing when he was twelve, but didn’t connect his experience with the horror he had become aware could happen. The most common form of assault is different to what happened to him, and the effects the victims suffered didn’t match his situation. He was not thinking so because of his gender, but more of how things had happened to him.

He was doing fine.

It would be unfair for real victims if he catalogued himself as one as well. He didn’t struggle as much as they did.

So it couldn’t mean anything, really. And mentioning something so many years later would break his father’s heart. So he wouldn’t speak up ever unless he came to direct knowledge and contact of the person responsible.

For now, he looked at his half full luggage. He had something to focus on.

All of this set him on the path to become one of the Students of Baldesion, becoming their most formidable expert on the Allagan empire. At the fine age of 24, he had found his expression evolving and flourishing across folks of similar interests that had no history of violence with him, often encouraging his most ridiculous ideas first whispered at a shy volume. In such safety and security, his odd humours were gone. All he needed was to be surrounded by people who valored him as a person. Best of all, he had been chosen to be the scholar overlooking the excavation of a very important Allagan artifact: the Crystal Tower. With all this encouragement and fun, he was the polar opposite of his past self that the Warrior of Light ran into, puzzled by G’raha’s charade with the aethersand and ridiculous high level entrance. Being there and talking to this hero, actually walking in a mission sure to make history, G’raha couldn’t feel enacting the eagerness and excitement history inspired him in the past, demanding what he saw as the “top task” and pouting when Rammbroes denied him. He had even forgotten about his red eye, until Doma and Unei showed up and it started hurting. 

When the oddity of his eye was pointed out, G’raha refused to believe the clear hint the clones had planted for him. Him, connected to a royal line with a huge historical impact? Well, it could at least make sense of how the kids repelled him if he was connected to an empire capable of imprisoning primals as batteries. But, he couldn’t say this of his father, who would be connected to. The old man had passed from age complications and he wouldn’t stain his memory like that. He was a respectable man that did everything he could for his child in the ways he knew, and had been repaid with an ungrateful child who couldn’t trust him with his hurt, realizing 20 years later what happened to him and feeling unable to say something about it, and-

And his spiral had ended when the warrior of light had taken his hand, looking across from him with a glint in their eyes that raced G’raha’s heartbeat. He had been over his desk, knuckles white as he grabbed a table corner as his thoughts. They had built up ever since he told the warrior he was bullied over his eye, and now they were over him asking what was wrong, brushing one thumb over his knuckles. They had been talking and growing closer, sometimes him stealing glances at breakfast and sometimes himself feeling watched when he transported some crates for Rammbroes. He felt there was something between them, but he couldn’t call it mutual attraction until he fully knows what he is. So for now he gives the warrior a smile, alluding to a nightmare and passing them a blueberry cookie before they go. 

He knew he was falling for the warrior, that was for sure. But, could he love them when their path would keep them from having ties with anyone in this and many adventures sure to come? One corner of his heart started to dream of volunteering to join and assist his adventures. That until they explored the world of darkness, and G’raha became the proper last Allagan in existence. He could now control the Crystal Tower, and whispers of the bening intentions of Princess Salina filled his mind. The strange outlandish man calling him “Allagan Prince” set in stone what his mind was spinning true: he had a duty to dedicate until his last dying breath, bring honor to what once brought forth horror. Closing the door to the warrior might separate them forever, but their time together, the inspiration that raised his heart, from seeing someone so strong and artful in combat extend a hand to him with such gentleness, brings him further yearning to do what he must do. Oh, how he’ll love to read of their accomplishments and peace they’ll bring in the future. To know he played his part and got the mystery of his eye resolved, even if he couldn’t resolve many things in himself… He was happy with what he must do, what he might do. If he can do his part and bring peace like his beloved Warrior in someway,

that would be enough.

* * *

If he slept of marvelous adventures or shadows following his every step, he cannot remember.

Not that it matters now, standing on the ashes of a ruined world. The inheritors of NOAH And Garlond Ironworks had persisted through it all and reached, no, surpassed the Allagan empire. The plan they came to G’raha with was nothing short of amazing, and G’raha couldn’t agree faster to give them access to the tower and study its capacities. Something so ambitious should have taken years to put together, but they managed to assemble the technologies within months. In the meantime, G’raha sighed dreamily over every tale and history of his beloved Warrior. They had soared far above and beyond to free two nations from the Garlean Empire, no doubt inspiring hope and friendships with that smile of theirs. The thought of their stories being cut short by the eight umbral calamity didn’t falter him, because he had faith in the plan. G’raha would travel back in time to a full new world, investigate the excess of Light in the First shard and help the Warrior triumph to save that world no matter the cost. When the time came to infuse the tower and his torso partially crystalized, he didn’t mind: a suitable look for a stranger to his own issues, so small compared to the road ahead of him. Once more, he laid in the tower and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, it was to braid his hair and see the ends go white. He chuckled as he secured his cloak and left the tower, greeted by people thanking him for the tower conveniently teleporting over a lightwarden. As he learned of these creatures, he worked with more urgency to craft a barrier out of the magical reserves of the tower, which worked more seamlessly with his will the more he worked on it. The barrier drew whispers and more people. He stretched the barrier for them all to the point he fell to his knees as his arm became crystal. It seemed the tower would change him more to synchronize better with his demands, so he fashioned a staff out of a crystal from the center. With it it was easier to bend spaces in the tower, and seal away parts of the tower he did not realize existed. 

This was around the time he had his first moment of stress, set up by the arguments and near petty fight between newcomers. G’raha had to separate people by physical force once, and break a speech about themselves tearing themselves safe from the lightwardens and more dangerous than the beasts. He admonished them to elect a leader to listen to their problems. Cue G’raha listening to a huge queue of people, commanding people to settle alongside certain crafters and professionals to get the field to something more liveable from tents. Aside from his own room, the Crystal Tower was largely inhospitable. Many tents could be set inside, but G’raha knew it would be a matter of time before too many people arrived and had to tent outside feeling some sort of exclusion. This pushed him to emphasize simple constructions eagerly, getting to the point people prefered to move out to the new houses. With relief, G’raha could cooperate with the few architects newly arrived from Eulmore to organize the sanctuary into a self-sustainable city. He still held private hearings for any citizen who needed it. In one of those sessions, a young person told him a trauma much similar to the one he had forgotten. He calmly promised them he would alert the newly established guard to be alert if their assaulter ever arrived. When he removed himself to the Ocular at night, he fell on his knees and he felt his legs shake in the aftershocks he suppressed hours back. G’raha never contemplated meeting another survivor, nor that being trusted directly with that pain from someone directly would draw him terror in sympathy. It has been so long. Why must he be affected now that so many rely on him? There is no space to tell anywhere. He’s heard them call him King behind his back.

He set a democratic council and union of guild leaders the next weeks, declaring he’ll only accept the title of Crystal Exarch.

With new clothes, the Exarch rigorously designs the system of the borning Crystarium to be much like the source, making all positions equal to contest and converse with the other. He knew awareness campaigns on consent and sexual safety were not the only measure to cut sexual assault from the root: You have to make structures were no one seeks power over the fellow man. He had no other way to explain why his own assault happened, and certainly wouldn’t think about it: an unique orphan arrives alone to the Crystarium’s gates, and he’s never felt instincts more proper to a Nunhn than in the moment he saw the babbling small Viera. He had the decency to ask the only Viera lesbian couple at the Crystarium if they’d rather have her, but they turned him down not chalking themselves to be capable parents. They informed him, though, of all the Viera heritage his baby could learn as she grew up, which he was insanely grateful for. He felt no lesson or story could surmise enough the blessing she was in her life, until he once lost sight of her at a social gathering. She was only three but could walk so far and so fast, and there were other rooms in this building. The Exarch had never sprinted so fast in his time while holding back a panic attack from wrecking his system. When he finally found her, she was crawling under bed sheets covering a table. He picked her gently in his arms, hugging her to his chest and breathing deeply. He checked every curl on her head was in place, counting until his heart rate was normal. She started sobbing at one point sensing his stress, and he rocked her softly to calm her down too. He was good when two guests wandered in, and he walked to the host to say he had things to do and retire immediately. As soon as he put her in bed, he booped her nose to indicate he had something important to say.

“Lyna, I am an adult who loves you and cherishes you like a grandaughter, but there others out there with bad intentions.”

Lyna tilted her head with a saddening glare in her eyes, and Exarch tickled her and blew raspberries on her tummy to cheer her up.

“Hey, let an old man finish! So, you can tell the good from the bad by seeing who respects you. If someone touches you here,” he pats the top of her head. “Here,” and places a gentle hand on her shoulder. “And here, it’s reassurance and it’s fine.” and he boops her nose, drawing another giggle. He lightly taps her mouth to draw back her focus. “But if someone tries to touch or look at you here,” he says, lifting a closed fist over her chest but not touching, “here,” then her legs, “or here,” and down from her tummy, “You firmly say no and remove yourself before they can try anything else, okay?”

“Okay pappa! But, hugs good, right?”

The Exarch laughs and gives his baby a big hug. “Of course, as long as they feel good! Even good touch can feel bad. You must ask the other person to stop, and if they don’t you kick them and come to me immediately, okay?”

Drawing her away back to her crib, Exarch sees the grateful stars in his eyes and he’s struck by a realization: Father never gave him this. It’s not like he didn’t have a sex education, but talks of consent didn’t happen so early. It was deemed a topic for when kids were mature enough to talk about the birds and the bees, way after what happened to G’raha. He won’t deny his late father’s love and care, but wish he didn’t think they were so intouchable. It’s why G’raha pretended he was. He won’t make Lyna think she has to do the same.

Years pass. Close after the date his younger self seals himself, he tries to summon the Warrior but gets his friends’ souls instead. He entrusts in the first his plan to sacrifice himself to banish all excess light from the first, and keeps the others in the dark. He succeeds to summon his warrior and keeps his real name a secret, guiding them through the ills of this world though not doing more to unseed their mistrust. He did extract them all from their home, after all, and it’s best they keep things convenient. But his gratitude far overwhelms his heart, kneeling and catching himself before proposing marriage and later preparing a lovely meal of sandwiches for the Warrior, now of Darkness. He tries to cast himself as the villain to lay down all the world’s pains along with his own, but the meddling Emmet Selch stops and kidnaps him to the effigy of a dying world. He tries to beat him down to submit control of the Crystal Tower, but Exarch smirks he “can’t break the silence of someone who’s swallowed worse wounds over 121 years.” Emmet huffs and drops him to the ground, turning to battle the Warrior of Darkness in a fight Exarch barely manages to aid. When he sees him later victorious and talking with their Scion frames, Exarch manages to walk close with the obligation of an apology. They remembered who he was, so the lies and deceptions would hurt deeper than a successful deception could have done. He wishes he had died on the spot, but his heart sinks at the thought he’d be leaving Lyna behind too. He hopes they all disdain him fast and back to the task of taking them back to the source, when the Warrior calls his name with a smile more earnest than the one they extended him a century ago in his soul. He shivers, cries and barely manages to form words.

Weeks later, after the Warrior first returns to the source and the Ascian Elidibus starts to cause trouble, his investigations on crystals are crossed by the rutinary report from Lyna. As formal as they acted to each other, Exarch’s heart always swelled with pride at his granddaughter now turned Captain, the logical successor for leadership of the source. She’d taken care of Exarch’s usual advice affairs while he was busy developing a method to take the Scions’ souls safely back to the source. Exarch made sure to compliment her hard work with words and a basket of sandwiches he managed time to make somehow. Just as he handed her the basket, she suddenly lay her hand on the top of his head, mirroring the affection he gave her in childhood. His heart jumped at the deja vu, eyes blinking as Lyna asked him to not overexert himself. As he promised to rest, he saw the strong and deductive woman his little had become. It was a bit heartbreaking to admit, but also relieving to see she could stand on her own now. He already knew so, yet it wasn’t as clear as this moment. If something were to happen to this body of his, which he feels slowly joining with the crystal as he works, she and the crystarium would be fine.

Right as she started heading out, a giggle escaped her as the Warrior of Darkness passed by her. She must be glad the Warrior has been orbiting him lately, now bringing the last piece of a desk he commissioned for alchemy purposes. As they finished the table in privacy, the Warrior caged his waist just as he clicked the last piece into place. The kiss they stole right after wasn’t the first: First time they came back from the source, they greeted Exarch with a kiss that left him almost numb. “I knew it,” was what they said. This time, they added sneaking hands under his robes, prompting Exarch to ask the tower a shortcut to his bedroom immediately. They tumbled on it clumsily, barely removing accessories as they exchanged kisses and licks on new skin. The Warrior eventually reached his thighs, caressing them slowly as they looked up to him and asked: “May I?”

And Exarch nods, hoping he doesn’t wake up from this dream. “Please go easy on me. It’ll be my first time.” 

The Warrior stays still, and Exarch worries he messed up somehow. They finally snicker, climbing to lay on his chest. “You’re kidding. You were always a hot piece of ass! How did you not get some action even before we met?”

Exarch really disagreed with the idea his ass could be desirable, but well, here he was now. “I just never looked for it, you know? Too busy trying to find out what the hell was wrong with my red eye.” But well, he wasn’t not ready for this. He saw it as a necessity to, ehrm, practice on himself in private to see what he liked sexually and how to pleasure someone. He took great satisfaction in his progress, and now it would bear fruit. He came a long way from doing it in hopes he doesn’t associate sexual touch with what happened to him, to doing it for quick de-stressing and satisfaction. Now, as the Warrior consumed all his dignity, no dark shadow crossed his mind as he begged for more, more and more, reaching a peak of blindness and crying in bliss. He laid whimpering with tears of bliss down his cheeks. He wasn’t aware he stayed like that for so long the Warrior got concerned and asked

“G’raha, are you alright? Oh dear, did you remember something horrible? If it’s that, I understand and I’m sorry. Or maybe you’re just overstimulated-”

Everything tuned out after “sorry,” his eyes wide and empty as he looked at the Warrior like a trapped animal, then everything went dark. He could feel the Warrior shake him and plead for him to come back. Trapped in his mind, he sees his younger self be lifted in his father’s arms and understand what he’s really been fearing all along. He blinks light back in his eyes, back in his body, and says

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone would catch me.”

The Warrior looks confused, saying he didn’t try to urge in G’raha’s secret and he’s not obligated to tell him anything. Exarch takes his hands, saying he’s realized he needs to tell this if they’re going forward together. For the first time, he tells what happened to his younger self to another living, breathing soul. The Warrior tears up silently, and his hands are warmed by the shaking anger in them. Exarch chuckles. “Hey, it wasn't that bad. I merely felt annoyed and it was just a hand. it’s not-”

“A hundred years, G’raha?”

“Eh?”

“You’ve been keeping this to yourself for more than a hundred years. Please, tell me you’ve used the therapy services you helped fund in the Crystarium. You are not fine. Look at the way you’re talking about yourself.”

Exarch looked away. “My dear, I know I have to, but even the professionals here look up to me like a beacon. For proper treatment to happen, there can be no connection between the professional and their patient. I am in part their ruler. There is no balance in which I could seek treatment from them. Circumstances demanded I stayed this shiny rock people can smile at and rely on. Besides, I don’t want to break their hearts. They are like family to me.”

The Warrior had laid to G’raha’s side, untangling knots in his hair with a deepening frown.

“It’s fine, I’m happy to help make a Good moment in history.”

“It’s not, you really are not-” the Warrior chokes and hugs him tightly, trying to stop their tears. Or maybe it’s inevitable, since they’re crying what G’raha won’t for himself. “I wish I could inspire you to have the courage to have compassion for yourself.”

Exarch kisses their nose. “Having you with me is all I could ever ask for.” 

The Warrior shakes their head as Exarch laughs and peppers him more kisses, slower as they fall asleep and find themselves entangled. The Exarch turns the Warrior over and says it’s early enough for them to finish what they started. He relishes in the cries and groans of pleasure he draws from his Warrior. The smug smirk lasted until the Warrior said this wouldn’t be the last time they talked about serious matters. Their next meetings, G’raha shares his thoughts on psychology texts on the impacts of sexual abuse and early childhood bullying. Other time he shoves a paper on PTSD in the Warrior’s hands, asking if they are also seeing someone on the source. He apologizes to tem for always seeing them so highly, thinking of their pain and burdeens only years after reading the tales of their heroism. He says it’s not fair that history memoirs their glories, but not their scars to their depths. That even he has failed as a scholar in that. The Warrior tears up, and under the light of the Ocular opens about experiences and worries they had hesitated to share. They even recount what they learned becoming a Dark Knight, then joke they should probably summon Fray and make them infect G’raha instead. The Exarch elbows them and pushes them away as they laugh.

Exarch can’t deny opening up to his Warrior has made things better. His steps feel lighter, and he designed the crystal soul vessels with more efficiency. He’s even dared to make a vessel for his own soul, pretending he’s gonna copy his memories as a test of safety to the vessels for the Scions, but truly wishing to retire and return to the source someday. He knows Urianger’s concerns his younger soul would reject his older one, but he knows the Exarch is just a name to project the hopes and dreams of another star. A rose by another name, so to say. That’s why when he helps the Warrior defeat Elidibus, and the strain makes his body start to crystallize completely, he asks to take his soul in the vessel and let him join them in just one adventure. If not for the selfishness the Warrior inspired him, the Crystal Exarch, G’raha Tia, would die in peace to have left Lyna and the Crystarium with the love and resolve to grow into a lovely home with good relations to the other survivor states. But he and his warrior have unfinished business, don’t they? Hopefully, that wish is enough to let his soul rejoin his sleeping self on the Source. He for once was truly sad for himself. He would laugh at the smile his Warrior would draw at his thoughts if not for the context. So he stood up, to leave his Exarch body inspiring love and protection for the ages of this land... and smiling at the wonderful person that, for some reason, wanted to stay at his side, not to accomplish a quest but join their hearts. 

_ Ah, I'm sorry I have to go. Maybe we’ll be together, if things work out? _

* * *

When his soul is adrift in the vessel, he cannot hear without senses to process words, but he feels surrounded by an incredible warmth. At first it was his father, then it was history, then it was the students of baldesion, then NOAH, then the Warrior of Darkness and the people at the Crystarium, then Lyna. If he was to come back and be corporeal again, would that warmth be everything around him? Or would the pains that plagued his childhood still mark fear on his flesh? If it were to be true, it would show irreparable hurt can print on the soul, but no matter how many cracks it may have, there is still warmth in this world to seek and nurture. You can have cracks and be “fine,” no matter how hard it might be to live with them. He might not have been open to Lyna or the people of the crystarium about what happened to him, but he hoped to have left them this message regardless. 

And he’ll learn this himself, wont he? He has eyes to open again, and a crushing force awakening his senses fast. They try to calmly pat his warrior’s back, only to be manhandled and kissed with a mix of desperation, relief, love and passion he couldn't make justice with words.

All he could say is he was glad to have chosen to rest on the Allagan throne, for it made many interesting tales to tease the Warrior about during their descent. 

He gave himself days to recover and accept to be a scion, getting his schedule in order before making Krile, certain inquiries. His Warrior smiled when they caught on and showed him a device to have virtual meetings, letting him have meetings with his therapist even when far from the rising stones for too long. It was months after that he wondered aloud, in a valley in Thanalan, if he should maybe be frank to Lyna as well. His Warriors says he doesn't have to, but he wants so they’ll help. They’ve reconnected a lot through the letters Warrior sends between worlds. He feels it’s time he stops being self reserved to his own family, reasoning his story will console anyone with his situation in the First. The Warrior sighs and agrees. G’raha writes the letter in an inn at Limsa Lominsa, and later waits for the Warrior to come back by crafting some medicine. When he hears the door creak, fear, guilt and regret spill into his gut. So many therapy sessions taught him to stop pinning all blame on himself, and yet, he is shaking violently when he sees his beloved is in tears, but smiling. They sit next to him and hand him the letter, saying Lyna wants him to read it immediately. As he reads every line of his daughter’s love and support manifesting in different ways, his Warrior caresses his hair. Graha’s eyes flood with happiness, even when Lyna reinforces her frustration at G’raha’s reservedness in letting her and the people pay back his kindness. When he’s finished, he hugs his beloved with laughs and sobs, thanking him for the courage to have opened up, exchanging soft hands and tears until he builds his resolve and raises to the desk, readying pen and ink.

One more letter for Lyna.

**Author's Note:**

> I did not expect to tense up when I wrote down the assault section… I don’t know what I have unearthed. Hopefully it’s catharsis… I’ll be careful, and I will treat this in therapy in private when current tasks end. Please don’t worry for me. 
> 
> And yeah, this devolved into fun wolexarch tidbits because i love that pairing too and graha and he deserves the best. and you do as well!
> 
> PD: this fic's doc is titled "graha please forgive me."


End file.
